Framed for Murder

by Edward Kendrick

  “Nope. I didn’t even realize there was blood on my shoe until I walked a long way from there. Then I dumped them in the trash by a bus stop.”

  “Good. Not so good about the fingerprints. They’ll know you were at the house as soon as they run them through the IAFIS database.”

  “Huh?”

  “That’s the FBI’s integrated automatic fingerprint ID system. Have you ever been arrested?”

  “Once, a couple of years before we met, for speeding. Not my proudest moment.”

  “I would think not. If they fingerprinted you, then they’re probably on file.”

  “They did. Lucky me,” I muttered.

  “What did the man who hired you look like? Oh, do you still have the envelope he gave you?”

  “Yeah.” I took it out of my pocket, setting it on the desk. “Not that it’ll do any good. I’ve handled it several times and he was wearing gloves when he gave it to me.”

  Trent picked it up by one corner and used a pencil tip to open it before shaking out the message—which wasn’t a message, just a blank piece of paper. “It’s possible he handled this when he put it in the envelope.”

  “I’d say that’s a given,” I replied sarcastically.

  “I meant, without wearing gloves, although I doubt it. I can check though, unless—” Trent shot me a dubious look, “—you want to take it to the police and tell them your story.”

  “I think you know the answer to that.”

  “Yeah, I do. Okay, describe the man.”

  “Well-dressed, wearing an overcoat, a good one, a hat, and as I said, gloves.”

  “I mean his face.”

  I closed my eyes, trying to picture it. “It was getting dark, and the brim of his hat was pulled low enough it pretty much shadowed his eyes. His nose was normal, straight, nothing that said it had ever been broken. He was clean-shaven, his lips were, hell, lips.”

  “Thin, thick, full, cracked, pouty?”

  “Average? I don’t know, Trent,” I replied in frustration. “Definitely not cracked. Maybe thinner than thick.”

  “What about his jaw?” he asked.

  “Square. Strong. Like he doesn’t take any shit. It fit his build, if that makes sense.”

  “It does, which helps. What was his voice like?”

  “Deep. He sounded educated, I guess. No accent that said he was from somewhere else, like the South or New Jersey.”

  He chortled. “He didn’t sound like a movie gangster.”

  “Nope.”

  “I wonder why he picked you,” Trent said, looking me over. If he wasn’t happy with what he was seeing, he kept it to himself.

  “My best guess? He thought I looked like the kind of guy who might break into a house to see what I could steal and pawn for drug money.”

  He nodded. “And kill the homeowner when he caught you. You said it was a butcher knife, right?”

  “Looked like one, from the size.”

  “A weapon of opportunity. The police will say you grabbed it from…Was there a butcher block on the counter with knives?”

  “Hell if I know. I saw the body, heard the sirens, and got out of there fast.”

  “My bet is, there was. This was a well-planned set-up. If I was him, the man who hired you, I’d have gone straight to the house after I had, waited until I saw you coming down the street then gone inside. Probably by the back door. Anderson, if that’s his name, either hears him, or is expecting him, comes into the kitchen and bam, the killer steps out from where he’s hiding and shoves the knife into his back. Then the killer calls the cops after he’s made his escape, leaving you to find the body. Or the same basic scenario if Anderson was already dead. The guy waits until he sees you coming, calls the cops, and splits.”

  “Nice theory, but no way to prove it,” I said. “He’d have to have moved real fast to do all that in the time it took me to reach the house and go around back.”

  “Were you walking quickly as you came down the block?”

  “Not really, and the house was halfway down, so yeah, he could have had time. Maybe you’re right. He killed him first, then watched for me so he could call the police. It took me about twenty minutes to get there ‘cause as I said, I shopped first then took a bus.”

  Trent drummed his fingers on the desk before saying, “I presume you don’t have enough money to hire me to look into this.”

  I snorted. “You presume right. Meaning I should get my ass out of here.”

  I could see he was torn between saying ‘yes,’ and the fact that the crime, and my unfortunate involvement in it, interested him. After all, he was a detective and a good one.

  “I’ll help you, for old time’s sake,” Trent said. “I will need a retainer, to make it official. Ten dollars should do it.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Yeah. If I’m going to go digging into things, I have to have proof I was hired to do so.” He took some papers from a desk drawer, setting them in front of me. “One’s the contract. The other’s for your personal information.” He paused. “You’d know better than me. Is there some cheap motel where you can rent a room for at least a couple of nights, to give you an address?”

  “You mean I can’t use the address of the building where I usually crash on the roof?” I gave him an innocent look, getting an eye roll from him. I thought about it for a moment. “Yeah. There’s the place I stayed right before I totally ran out of money. Back then they were charging twenty-four a night for a room a hooker wouldn’t be caught dead in. It’s probably more, now.”

  “Damn it, Charlie.” Trent shook his head. “Fill out everything else while I find you somewhere halfway decent. Before you ask, I’ll pay for a week there. You can pay me back when you get on your feet again.”

  “Meaning never?” I replied snarkily.

  He ignored me, so I began doing as he’d asked, leaving the address line blank for now. As I did, I wondered why he was willing to go this far to help me. I could understand the cheap retainer. He knew I couldn’t afford more than that. But paying for a place for me to stay, even if it was only for a week? For old time’s sake, as he’d said?

  We’d been together for three years before we finally ended things. Not living together, but as close to it as was possible since we spent most of our nights at either his place or mine. A matter of convenience I guess you could say, since if there was one thing we had going for us it was spectacular sex. Even with that, neither of us seemed ready to take the final step of moving in together. I suppose because we were too different in too many ways. He was college educated; I had barely made it through high school. He’d started his own, successful business. I unclogged drains and sewer pipes and replaced toilets for a living, working for a company that paid me enough to get by and not much more. Had we loved each other? I suppose, in our own ways we had, or close to it, but it wasn’t enough to keep us together in the end. So, as I said, we parted company by mutual agreement.

  While he was searching for a motel, I had a thought and voiced it. “Why stab him in the back? If I walked into a room and someone was there I didn’t know, for damned sure I wouldn’t turn my back on him.”

  “You might if you were going to run, especially if the person grabbed a knife. Whether it happened just before you got there and the victim did try to run, or earlier and the guy who hired you was waiting for the victim and surprised him when he came into the kitchen, the end is still the same. One dead man and you in the frame as the killer.”

  “Okay.” I grimaced. “I was the perfect patsy, wasn’t I? Ready to make some easy money for running an errand for the guy.”

  “With the life you’ve been living, I can understand why.”

  Was there some compassion in his voice? I thought so, but I wasn’t going to ask.

  “I found two motels,” Trent said, returning his attention to his computer. He turned the monitor so I could see and I chose one.

  When he asked why that one, I said it was closest to where I usually panhan
dled. “It’ll save me going halfway across town.”

  “You’re not going to be doing that,” he said emphatically. “Panhandling, I mean. By now the police could be looking for you. If they aren’t, they will be soon. You’re staying away from there. The guy who set you up would probably make certain they knew where they could begin searching.”

  I was about to say I could shave and get a haircut, but if the cops knew who I was, they’d undoubtedly know what I used to look like, when I was a real member of society. “Problem is, if you set me up in the motel they can still…”

  “I’m doing it under my name,” Trent said. “At the one across town from your usual haunts.”

  I nodded, saying, “Thanks.” Then something struck me that we hadn’t done, which was stupid, although understandable I guess. “Has the murder made the news?”

  Trent immediately went to the website for one of the local TV stations. Even though it was mid-morning by now, they had repeats on the site of the early morning news stories—and there it was.

  “The body of local entrepreneur, Michael Pender, was found last night in the kitchen of his home in the Bentwood area of the city,” the reporter said. “He had been stabbed to death with a knife taken from the butcher block on the kitchen counter. The police are calling it the result of his catching someone breaking into his house, intending to rob it. The police say they received a call from a neighbor telling them that they had seen a man trying to pry open a basement window at Pender’s home before the perpetrator moved around to the back yard. When the police arrived, they found the back door had been jimmied open.”

  Trent looked at me. “You said it was partially open when you got there. Did you notice any pry marks?”

  “No, but I wasn’t looking for them. I thought someone had been careless and hadn’t closed it all the way. After all, there was a light on, coming through one of the windows.”

  “Stupid of you.”

  “Hey. It was dark, I knocked and it opened a fraction of an inch, so I pushed it open the rest of the way, calling his name. Well, calling for Mr. Anderson. Since he didn’t answer, I went inside.”

  “Again, a stupid move.”

  “I know that—now. Then, I guess I was thinking he’d gone into another room or something. Okay, I take that back. I wasn’t thinking at all. I just wanted to give him the envelope and get out of there.”

  “Honestly, Charlie. You didn’t think it was strange the door wasn’t locked?”

  “Not really. It’s the kind of area where people trust their neighbors and still have security up the wazoo, if that makes sense.”

  “I suppose it does, to you.” Trent sighed, shaking his head. “Okay. I have a client due in ten minutes.” He wrote down the address of the motel. “I don’t suppose you have a phone.”

  “Yeah, I do. I got it right after I lost my job because I couldn’t afford the contract on the old one, but I needed a phone if I was going to find a new job. It’s a no-contract one and I buy minutes for it when I’ve got a couple of extra dollars. Not that I’ve got anyone to call these days, but…” I shrugged.

  “All right. You know my number. I haven’t changed it since we broke up. Call me when you get to the motel. Remember, the room’s in my name, and it’s paid for.”

  “Won’t they want to see some ID?”

  Trent gave me a disbelieving look. “This isn’t the kind of motel that cares. They have my money. They’ll hand over the key, and it probably will be a key, not a keycard, without asking questions.”

  “Sounds like the one I told you about, where I stayed before I was totally broke.”

  “Hopefully, it’s one step up from that.”

  It was, as I found out when I got there—which took two busses and a three-block walk. The guy at the desk barely looked up when I told him I was Trent Larson and I had reserved a room for the week. He reached for a key on a pegboard behind the desk, slid a ledger over for me to sign, and told me where the room was. It turned out to be on the backside of the motel, on the second floor off an exterior walkway.

  As cheap motels go, the room wasn’t bad. It had a bed, a dresser, one chair, and a TV which was fastened to the wall so no one could steal it. The sheets were clean, the carpet and the bathroom not so much so. Still, beggars can’t be choosers, I thought, and I definitely was one of those. I called Trent. He said to stay in the room until he got there, which would be sometime after five. So I turned on the TV, got out my book, and split my attention between them.

  Chapter 3

  I must have dozed off. Not too surprising since this was the first time in forever I’d had a real bed in a real room, instead of having to use my sleeping bag on a roof or in an alley. I shot awake when there was a knock on the door. My first thought was it had to be Trent. My second? Don’t be stupid—again. It could be the cops, or, hell, the guy who hired me.

  I eased off the bed, tiptoed to the window beside the door, and pulled the curtain back barely an inch to see who was there. I would have used the peephole, if there’d been one, but as I’ve said, this was cheap motel personified.

  It was Trent, so I unlocked the door to let him in. His first comment was, “No safety latch? I guess I should have figured.” He handed me a box. “This will take care of that, and alert you about anyone trying to get in without you knowing.”

  Opening the box, I saw one of those alarms you hang on a doorknob with prongs that fit between the door and the frame. When it’s turned on, opening the door separates the prongs and an alarm sounds that would wake the dead. There was also one for the window that went off when the magnetic contact was broken if someone tried to open it. I used to have those on my windows, when I had an apartment.

  “Are these to warn me if the cops show up, or to give me a chance to hide if the guy who hired me does?” I asked dryly.

  Looking around, Trent said, “I’m not sure there’s anywhere you can hide. At least they’ll forewarn you when…if someone tries to get to you. If it is the police, I’d suggest you surrender peacefully.”

  “No shit,” I muttered.

  We set everything up before Trent settled in the chair and I sat on the edge of the bed.

  “The latest news on Pender’s murder is that the cops have a name for his killer, although they’re not releasing it to the public yet.”

  “Whether they do or not, we both know it’s mine,” I said. “Remind me not to trust well-dressed men with money.”

  Trent chuckled. “Including me?”

  He had a point. He’d always been a bit of a clotheshorse, and God only knows, while he’s not rich, he’s not hurting, either.

  “You, I trust,” I replied. “No matter what you think of me, I don’t think you’ll throw me to the wolves.”

  “Charlie, I never hated you. You know that. When it came down to it, we just weren’t compatible enough for things to last.”

  “True.” I shrugged. “And you didn’t toss me out on my ear when I showed up this morning, although you probably considered it.”

  “I did.” He studied me for a long moment before asking, “Why didn’t you get in touch before you let things get this far?”

  “Pride, I guess. I didn’t want you to see how far I’d fallen.”

  “Next time, call me.”

  “Next time?” I gave him a dour look. “You think I’m going to get back on my feet and then fall again?”

  Trent shook his head. “That came out wrong. I’d like to think we can still be friends, even though it’s been a long time since we’ve seen each other. If one of us needs help, we should be able to let the other one know.”

  “I’ve sort of done that in spades, and now you’re mixed up in a murder case.”

  He reached over to pat my knee. “Do you hear me complaining?”

  “Not out loud,” I replied dryly before changing the subject. “If I am arrested, there’s one point in my favor. My prints aren’t on the knife.”

  “They’ll say you wiped them off before you ran.�
�

  “Off the knife, but not the counter and the door? Who would be that stupid?”

  Trent eyed me. “The guy who left them there in the first place?”

  “I was in a bit of a hurry because I heard sirens. In a hurry and panicked. Somehow walking in on a murder scene and getting that I was being framed for it didn’t exactly calm my nerves enough to think straight.”

  “I get that, but still.” He glanced toward the door, as if expecting the cops to arrive at any second, which did nothing to ease my worries. Then he said, “We have to work on the premise that sooner or later the police will release your name and probably a photo.”

  “The name won’t mean anything. It’s not like I tell it to the people who drop some change in my cup. If they do have my picture, it’ll be from back when I was an upstanding member of society, meaning clean-shaven and with my hair a hell of a lot shorter than it is now.” I grimaced. “And there won’t be all the stress-lines.” I touched my forehead.

  “You have a point, but you’re still not going out in public. There’s at least one man who does know what you look like now, and he probably isn’t too happy that his plan failed, especially since you know what he looks like, too.”

  I thought about that. “He did try to hide his face, as much as possible. Like I said, it was getting dark and he was wearing a hat. My description of him really is worse than useless, even if the cops believed my story.” I sighed. “You know they won’t.”

  “It doesn’t mean he wouldn’t like you out of the picture. He doesn’t know for certain that you can’t give his description to the police.”

  “I wonder if he hoped I’d run and the cops would shoot me? That would have solved all his problems.”

  “We won’t know until we find him.”

  “How are we supposed to do that?” I asked.

  “We’ll figure it out.” Trent stood and I thought he was getting ready to leave, now that he knew I was safe for the time being. Instead he said, “It’s dinner time and I’d be willing to bet you haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

  “Something I’m used to, but yeah, I haven’t.”